Charcoal
by Anna Marchen
Summary: Roger's recovery from the FAYZ and his reunion with Edilio. Because even something burnt to charcoal can be used to draw.


_If you recognise it, it's not mine._

* * *

Roger was broken.

No.

More than broken.

His heart was shattered into more pieces than he could count. Justin was dead. Burned right in front of his eyes. Dead. A lot of people had died in the FAYZ, but Justin had become like a little brother to him. It was like losing his family all over again. Except then, he hadn't stood and watched. Just heard about the accident, met the social worker, and been shuttled from relative to relative, and then, eventually, Coates. He couldn't even see Coates from the cloud of ash and smoke which still hung over the town from the fight.

The fight Edilio was in.

Edilio was probably dead too. Roger sat down on a charred tree branch and rested his head in his hands. A crumpled piece of paper was clenched between his fingers. Unfolding it carefully, he stared down at the scuffed pencil drawing. Lips slightly parted, eyes kind even in the quick, sketchy lines, Edilio smiled up at him. Roger almost spoke, as he'd started to do over the last few days, or weeks, ever since he woke up floating on his back in the lake, bleeding from a cut on the back of his head and repeatedly bumping against the barrier as a slight current carried him forward. He'd gone back to the half sunken boat, looking for Justin, for anyone. There was nobody there. Just bodies, and a single drawing left caught in a tree. Roger drew breath to talk to his dead boyfriend, because it was better to not hope at all than to have hopes crushed. He heard a loud clattering buzz. A helicopter was landing on the lakeside. Folding up the page, he ducked behind a tree and watched as three adults made their way round the lakeside. His sleep deprived, mourning brain made the connection slowly.

Adults.

Here.

"Hello? Is anyone there? Oh, _god._ Mark, it looks like they're all dead. There must be at least ten bodies here. What the hell happened?" The other adults moved away from the lake, towards the remains of the woods. Roger's head spun as he stood up. The rustling attracted the attention of the group, and they started running, shouting as they came.

"Hey, you? Are you hurt?"

"He looks burned. And there's blood on his face, possible injuries."

"Jesus, the kid can barely stand."

"He's skin and bone. Kid, what's your name?" With a sudden, brief moment of clarity, Roger realised they were talking about him. Then he was running, stumbling over disintegrating logs, ashes flying up into his face. His starved body protested, forcing him to sway and stagger. The adults were catching up with him. Roger fell, a sharp pain rushing up his leg as he landed with a crack. Even then, he resisted as the adults tried to lift him.

"Mate, we need you to come with us. Is anyone else with you?" Roger screamed as the piece of paper was torn from his fingers, and kept screaming.

"What's your name? Do you have parents we can contact?" The adults kept asking questions, blurring into one another like the ashes of the boats on the water. Kicking out at one of them, his broken leg crashed against the ground. That hurt. The adults moved faster, away from the lake. Roger began to cry.

"It's ok, kid, we're getting you out of here." Roger twisted, looked once more at the burnt out boats, the ashes spiralling across the water. Then he was loaded into the helicopter and everything went black. Roger woke up in a clean white room. He couldn't feel anything wrong with him. There was a soft buzzing in the background. Someone with a long white robe came in. Roger said the first thing which came into his head.

"Am I dead?" His voice was cracked and weak, so he said it again. The angel shook its head, and leant forward enough for Roger to see it was a doctor in a long white coat. "You're in hospital. Can you remember anything which happened?" Roger closed his eyes.

Helicopter running adults lost burnt barrier water Justin boat Gaia fire...

"Fire," he whispered, trying to block out the memories with a single smoking word. The doctor nodded.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asked gently. Roger had to think about that one.

He was Edilio's babe.

He was Justin's brother.

He was... He was the Artful Roger. And now he was nothing.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Roger," he muttered miserably. It wasn't true. But it would do for now. The doctor smiled at him, and Roger tried to smile back. He couldn't.

* * *

Therapy was relaxing, in some way. As soon as his leg was healed enough for him to use crutches, and the burns on his hands were healed enough for him to hold the crutches, he was in that room for hours every day. At first he said nothing. Then, after about a week, they gave him a piece of paper and a pencil, and Roger could draw again. He drew Edilio. Edilio laughing, Edilio sleeping, Edilio with Justin, Edilio with him. And as he drew, he could talk, more to Edilio than the therapist, keeping his eyes to the paper, but talking. Page after page, question after question.

"Did anyone you cared for die in the FAYZ?"

"Yeah."

_Justin. Edilio. And all the others he didn't even know but that doesn't mean they could die._

"Did you see any supernatural powers occurring?"

"Light. Teleportation. Speed. Healing. Telekinesis. Gravity cancelling."

_These were used to kill people, aside from the healing. And one girl could grow stuff, does that count?_

"Is there anyone you want me to check up on, to see if they're alive?"

_Anyone. Pick someone._

"Can you check to see if Brianna made it?" She didn't. Roger cries as he draws another picture, this time of Edilio with a girl, hair pulled into little plaits, tattered sneakers on her feet. _Poor Breeze._ About a week later, he asks to see a full list of the dead. He draws them, or at least everyone he knew or could recognise. Letting go.

Jack.

Dahra.

Penny.

Orsay.

Toto.

Mary.

Drake.

Caine.

So many more. He draws Gaia too, floating in the air as she burns the lake. He adds Justin to the list. Edilio isn't there, but he doesn't mention it. Eventually, one day many weeks later, the therapist asks to see his drawings. There are two separate piles. The dead, and Edilio. When she comes to Edilio's pages, she stops, and types something into her computer. "Roger, is this someone important to you?" she asks. Roger nods slowly, wondering where this is going. She turns the computer screen round, and on it is a newspaper headline from a couple of weeks ago.

_**IMMIGRANT FAYZ SURVIVOR CAN STAY.**_

Leaning forward almost hungrily, he reads the first few lines.

_'Edilio Escobar and his family, originally from Honduras, have been granted permission to stay in the USA as a response to his bravery during the FAYZ anomaly. This has been argued and confirmed by three other survivors..._' He started to shake his head, then looked at the picture accompanying the article. Edilio's face had filled out, but there was still a haunted look in his eyes. Roger's heart ached, but not the hollow, lost ache he'd grown used to. For the first time since he'd watched Justin die, Roger felt a tiny pang of hope. The therapist was watching him closely, and that's how she noticed when he stood up, gathering his pictures to his chest, and the colour drained from his face. On her way round the desk, she hit the button to call the doctor, and managed to catch Roger as he fell, fainting with tears running down his face.

After that he's fighting. His leg heals perfectly, and there's only pale scars left from the burns which once covered most of his body. He gains weight. Not a lot, but enough so that he doesn't look like a walking skeleton anymore. His therapy almost flies past, filled with the least angry account of the FAYZ anyone has ever given. It's illustrated perfectly.

One day, he arrives at his therapy and the therapist isn't there. Instead, a tall, skinny young man is lounging in the chair, feet resting on the desk. Although his posture is casual, his face is tight and alert, gazing out of the window. Roger dropped the pencil case he was carrying. Stationery clattered to the floor. Roger made no move to stop it as pencils rolled under the door. Instead he stood silently, as if he'd seen a ghost. The boy at the desk whipped round at the noise, standing up and reaching for a gun which didn't exist in one fluid movement. Then his face lit up with the smile Roger never thought he'd see again, as he vaulted over the desk, skidded on a pile of loose pens, and fell into Roger's arms. Roger pulled him upright, bringing his hands to his face, running his fingers over the features he had drawn so many times, trying to convince himself thaot he's real, solid. And he's crying again, hot tears running down his face.

"Roger, Roger, don't cry. Don't cry, babe." And then he's sitting on the pile of brightly coloured beanbags in the corner, and _Edilio_ is sitting next to him, and_ Edilio _is handing him a tissue, and he's _there_, he's really there. And he's laughing.

"You hear all those wonderfully romantic reunion moments about the princess swooning into her lover's arms, and there I go, slipping on a pencil." That is the last proof Roger needs. He laughs too, albeit a little shakily, and dries his eyes.

"I thought you were dead," he whispers. "Until I saw an article online, I thought you were dead." Edilio sighs, holding his hand tightly.

"I thought you were dead too. Then I saw this news thing, and I knew it was you." They sit silently for a moment, hands linked, shoulders touching.

"I saw your drawings," Edilio murmurs. "The ones of the dead. Who told you?"

"There's a list online. I asked to see it." They both know that the conversation goes further than that, that they need to talk about things which happened, but not here, not now. Edilio stands up and stretches. "Do you know where you're staying when you get out?" Roger shakes his head. Truthfully, it hasn't been discussed, but he knows nobody in his family would ever take him. Then Edilio reaches out a hand, pulling him to his feet.

"Come with me. My mother has a house out in Pasadena. It's near the Art Centre College of Design. You can come stay with us." Roger doesn't believe him at first, but then Edilio smiles, and holds up a picture. It's one which Roger drew weeks ago, of him and Edilio silhouetted against a sunset together. "This could be real," he whispers, and Roger sees that he's scared that he'll say no, that they'll lose each other again. There's a picture on top of the piles on the desk. Justin's innocent face stares out of it. Roger gathers up his pictures, gently sliding them into an empty plastic wallet. Then he collects the stationery scattered over the floor. He leaves a note on the desk for the therapist, saying thank you, saying goodbye, because until now, she was his family.

Sort of.

Then he takes Edilio's hand, and holds it as if he'll never let go. "

They want me to do a book, an autobiography," Edilio says as they close the door. "The usual immigration struggle story, but with a twist. Several twists," he adds ruefully as they pass the hospital room in the pyschology ward Roger has called home for the last few months. "I was thinking, I need an illustrator. Nobody will have photographs." As they pause at reception, signing out, Roger turns to the doors. It's windy outside. Leaves twist and dance past the automatic doors, occasionally blowing inside as it opens briefly.

"Come on," he says, gesturing to the world outside. "Let's get out of here."


End file.
